When He Was Wicked: The 2nd Epilogue

  Fiona drew back as if slapped. “Freckles fade. Mine shall be gone before I turn eighteen. My mother puts lemon juice on them every night.” She sniffed disdainfully. “But there’s no remedy for you, Miranda. You’re ugly.”

  “She is not!”

  Both girls turned to see Olivia, who had returned from the washroom.

  “Oh, Olivia,” Fiona said. “I know you are friends with Miranda because she lives so close by and shares your lessons, but you must admit she isn’t very pretty. My mama says she’ll never get a husband.”

  Olivia’s blue eyes sparkled dangerously. The Earl of Rudland’s only daughter had always been loyal to a fault, and Miranda was her best friend. “Miranda will get a better husband than you, Fiona Bennet! Her father’s a baronet whereas yours is a mere mister.”

  “Being a baronet’s daughter makes little difference unless one has looks or money,” Fiona recited, repeating words she had obviously heard at home. “And Miranda has neither.”

  “Be quiet, you silly old cow!” Olivia exclaimed, stomping her foot on the ground. “This is my birthday party, and if you can’t be nice, you may leave!”

  Fiona gulped. She knew better than to alienate Olivia, whose parents held the highest rank in the area. “I’m sorry, Olivia,” she mumbled.

  “Don’t apologize to me. Apologize to Miranda.”

  “I’m sorry, Miranda.”

  Miranda stayed silent until Olivia finally kicked her. “I accept your apology,” she said grudgingly.

  Fiona nodded and ran off.

  “I can’t believe you called her a silly old cow,” Miranda said.

  “You must learn to stand up for yourself, Miranda.”

  “I was standing up for myself just fine before you came along, Livvy. I just wasn’t doing it so loudly.”

  Olivia sighed. “Mama says I haven’t an ounce of restraint or common sense.”

  “You don’t,” Miranda agreed.

  “Miranda!”

  “It’s true, you don’t. But I love you anyway.”

  “And I love you, too, Miranda. And don’t worry about silly old Fiona. You can marry Winston when you grow up and then we’ll be sisters truly.”

  Miranda glanced across the room and eyed Winston dubiously. He was yanking on a little girl’s hair. “I don’t know,” she said hesitantly. “I’m not sure I would wish to marry Winston.”

  “Nonsense. It would be perfect. Besides, look, he just spilled punch on Fiona’s dress.”

  Miranda grinned.

  “Come with me,” Olivia said, taking her hand. “I want to open my gifts. I promise I’ll squeal the loudest when I get to yours.”

  The two girls walked back into the room, and Olivia and Winston opened their gifts. Mercifully (in Lady Rudland’s opinion), they finished at four o’clock on the button, which was the time that the children were meant to go home. Not a single child was picked up by servants; an invitation to Haverbreaks was considered quite an honor, and none of the parents wanted to miss the opportunity to hobnob with the earl and countess. None of the parents besides Miranda’s, that was. At five o’clock, she was still in the sitting room, assessing the birthday booty with Olivia.

  “I can’t imagine what has happened to your parents, Miranda,” Lady Rudland said.

  “Oh, I can,” Miranda replied cheerfully. “Mama’s gone to Scotland to visit her mama, and I’m sure Papa has forgotten about me. He often does, you know, when he’s working on a manuscript. He translates from the Greek.”

  “I know.” Lady Rudland smiled.

  “Ancient

  Greek.” “I know,” Lady Rudland said on a sigh. This was not the first time Sir Rupert Cheever had misplaced his daughter. “Well, you shall have to get home somehow.”

  “I’ll go with her,” Olivia suggested.

  “You and Winston need to put away your new toys and write thank-you notes. If you don’t do it tonight, you shan’t remember who gave you what.”

  “But you can’t send Miranda home with a servant. She’ll have no one to talk to.”

  “I can talk to the servant,” Miranda said. “I always talk to the ones at home.”

  “Not ours,” Olivia whispered. “They’re starched and silent and they always look at me disapprovingly.”

  “Most of the time you deserve to be looked at disapprovingly,” Lady Rudland interjected, giving her daughter a loving pat on the head. “I have a treat for you, Miranda. Why don’t we have Nigel bring you home?”

  “Nigel!” Olivia squealed. “Miranda, you lucky duck.”

  Miranda raised her brows. She had never met Olivia’s older brother. “All right,” she said slowly. “I should like to finally meet him. You talk about him so often, Olivia.”

  Lady Rudland summoned a maid to fetch him. “You’ve never met him, Miranda? How odd. Well, I suppose he’s usually only home at Christmas, and you always go to Scotland for the holiday. I had to threaten to cut him off to get him home for the twins’ birthday. As it was, he wouldn’t attend the party for fear that one of the mamas would try to marry him off to a ten-year-old.”

  “Nigel is nineteen, and he is very eligible,” Olivia said matter-of-factly. “He’s a viscount. And he’s very handsome. He looks just like me.”

  “Olivia!” Lady Rudland said reprovingly.

  “Well, he does, Mama. I should be very handsome if I were a boy.”

  “You’re quite pretty as a girl, Livvy,” Miranda said loyally, eyeing her friend’s blond locks with just a little envy.

  “So are you. Here, pick one of Fiona-cow’s ribbons. I don’t need them all, anyway.”

  Miranda smiled at her lie. Olivia was such a good friend. She looked down at the ribbons and perversely chose the violet satin. “Thank you, Livvy. I shall wear it to lessons on Monday.”

  “You called, Mother?”

  At the sound of the deep voice, Miranda turned her face to the doorway and almost gasped. There stood quite the most splendid creature she had ever beheld. Olivia had said that Nigel was nineteen, but Miranda immediately recognized him as the man he already was. His shoulders were marvelously broad, and the rest of him was lean and firm. His hair was darker than Olivia’s but still streaked with gold, attesting to time spent out in the sun. But the best part about him, Miranda immediately decided, was his eyes, which were bright, bright blue, just like Olivia’s. They twinkled just as mischievously, too.

  Miranda smiled. Her mother always said that one could tell a person by his eyes, and Olivia’s brother had very good eyes.

  “Nigel, would you please be so kind as to escort Miranda home?” Lady Rudland asked. “Her father seems to have been detained.”

  Miranda wondered why he winced when she said his name.

  “Certainly, Mother. Olivia, did you have a good party?”

  “Smashing.”

  “Where is Winston?”

  Olivia shrugged. “He’s off playing with the saber Billy Evans gave him.”

  “Not a real one, I hope.”

  “God help us if it is,” Lady Rudland put in. “All right, Miranda, let’s get you home. I believe your cloak is in the next room.” She disappeared through the doorway and emerged a few seconds later with Miranda’s serviceable brown coat.

  “Shall we be off, Miranda?” The godlike creature held out his hand to her.

  Miranda shrugged on her coat and placed her hand in his. Heaven!

  “I will see you on Monday!” Olivia called out. “And don’t worry about what Fiona said. She’s just a silly old cow.”

  “Olivia!”

  “Well, she is, Mama. I don’t want to have her back.”

  Miranda smiled as she let Olivia’s brother lead her down the hall, Olivia’s and Lady Rudland’s voices slowly fading away. “Thank you very much for taking me home, Nigel,” she said softly.

  He winced again.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I ought to be calling you ‘my lord,’ oughtn’t I? It’s just that Olivia and Winston always refer t
o you by your given name and I—” She cast miserable eyes toward the floor. Only two minutes in his splendid company, and already she’d blundered.

  He stopped and crouched down so that she could see his face. “Don’t worry about the ‘my lord,’ Miranda. I’ll tell you a secret.”

  Miranda’s eyes widened, and she forgot to breathe.

  “I despise my given name.”

  “That’s not much of a secret, Nig—I mean, my lord, I mean, whatever you wish to be called. You wince every time your mother says it.”

  He smiled down at her. Something had tugged at his heart when he saw this little girl with the too-serious expression playing with his indomitable sister. She was a funny-looking little creature, but there was something quite lovable about her big, soulful brown eyes.

  “What are you called?” Miranda asked.

  He smiled at her direct manner. “Turner.”

  For a moment he thought she might not answer. She just stood there, utterly still save for the blinking of her eyes. And then, as if finally reaching a conclusion, she said, “That’s a nice name. A bit odd, but I like it.”

  “Much better than Nigel, don’t you think?”

  Miranda nodded. “Did you choose it? I’ve often thought that people ought to choose their own names. I should think that most people would choose something different from what they have.”

  “And what would you choose?”

  “I’m not certain, but not Miranda. Something plainer, I think. People expect something different from a Miranda and are almost always disappointed when they meet me.”

  “Nonsense,” Turner said briskly. “You are a perfect Miranda.”

  She beamed. “Thank you, Turner. May I call you that?”

  “Of course. And I didn’t choose it, I’m afraid. It’s just a courtesy title. Viscount Turner. I’ve been using it in place of Nigel since I went to Eton.”

  “Oh. It suits you, I think.”

  “Thank you,” he said gravely, completely entranced by this serious child. “Now, give me your hand again, and we shall be on our way.”

  He had held out his left hand to her. Miranda quickly moved the ribbon from her right hand to her left.

  “What’s that?”

  “This? Oh, a ribbon. Fiona Bennet gave two dozen of them to Olivia, and Olivia said I might keep one.”

  Turner’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly as he remembered Olivia’s parting words. Don’t worry about what Fiona said. He plucked the ribbon out of her hand. “Ribbons belong in hair, I think.”

  “Oh, but it doesn’t match my dress,” Miranda said in feeble protest. He’d already fastened it atop her head. “How does it look?” she whispered.

  “Smashing.”

  “Really?” Her eyes widened doubtfully.

  “Really. I’ve always thought that violet ribbons look especially nice with brown hair.”

  Miranda fell in love on the spot. So intense was the feeling that she quite forgot to thank him for the compliment.

  “Shall we be off?” he said.

  She nodded, not trusting her voice.

  They made their way out of the house and to the stables. “I thought we might ride,” Turner said. “It’s far too nice a day for a carriage.”

  Miranda nodded again. It was uncommonly warm for March.

  “You can take Olivia’s pony. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

  “Livvy hasn’t got a pony,” Miranda said, finally finding her voice. “She has a mare now. I’ve one at home, too. We’re not babies, you know.”

  Turner suppressed a smile. “No, I can see that you are not. How silly of me. I wasn’t thinking.”

  A few minutes later, their horses were saddled, and they set off on the fifteen-minute ride to the Cheever home. Miranda stayed silent for the first minute or so, too perfectly happy to spoil the moment with words.

  “Did you have a good time at the party?” Turner finally asked.

  “Oh, yes. Most of it was just lovely.”

  “Most of it?”

  He saw her wince. Obviously, she hadn’t meant to say so much. “Well,” she said slowly, catching her lip between her teeth and then letting it go before continuing, “one of the girls said some unkind words to me.”

  “Oh?” He knew better than to be overly inquisitive.

  And obviously, he was right, because when she spoke, she rather reminded him of his sister, staring up at him with frank eyes as her words spilled firmly from her mouth. “It was Fiona Bennet,” she said, with great distaste, “and Olivia called her a silly old cow, and I must say I’m not sorry that she did.”

  Turner kept his expression appropriately grave. “I’m not sorry that she did, either, if Fiona said unkind things to you.”

  “I know I’m not pretty,” Miranda burst out. “But it’s dreadfully impolite to say so, not to mention downright mean.”

  Turner looked at her for a long moment, not exactly certain how to comfort the little girl. She wasn’t beautiful, that was true, and if he tried to tell her that she was, she wouldn’t believe him. But she wasn’t ugly. She was just…rather awkward.

  He was saved, however, from having to say anything by Miranda’s next comment.

  “It’s this brown hair, I think.”

  He raised his brows.

  “It’s not at all fashionable,” Miranda explained. “And neither are brown eyes. And I’m too skinny by half, and my face is too long, and I’m far too pale.”

  “Well, that’s all true,” Turner said.

  Miranda turned to face him, her eyes looming large and sad in her face.

  “You certainly do have brown hair and eyes. There is no use arguing that point.” He tilted his head and pretended to give her a complete inspection. “You are rather thin, and your face is indeed a trifle long. And you certainly are pale.”

  Her lips trembled, and Turner could tease her no more. “But as it happens,” he said with a smile, “I myself prefer women with brown hair and eyes.”

  “You don’t!”

  “I do. I always have. And I like them thin and pale, as well.”

  Miranda eyed him suspiciously. “What about long faces?”

  “Well, I must admit, I never gave the matter much thought, but I certainly don’t mind a long face.”

  “Fiona Bennet said I have big lips,” she said almost defiantly.

  Turner bit back a smile.

  She heaved a great sigh. “I never even noticed I had big lips before.”

  “They’re not so big.”

  She shot him a wary glance. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

  “I do want you to feel better, but that’s not why I said it. And next time Fiona Bennet says you have big lips, tell her she’s wrong. You have full lips.”

  “What’s the difference?” She looked over at him patiently, her dark eyes serious.

  Turner took a breath. “Well,” he stalled. “Big lips are unattractive. Full lips are not.”

  “Oh.” That seemed to satisfy her. “Fiona has thin lips.”

  “Full lips are much, much better than thin lips,” Turner said emphatically. He quite liked this funny little girl and wanted her to feel better.

  “Why?”

  Turner offered up a silent apology to the gods of etiquette and propriety before he answered, “Full lips are better for kissing.”

  “Oh.” Miranda blushed, and then she smiled. “Good.”

  Turner felt absurdly pleased with himself. “Do you know what I think, Miss Miranda Cheever?”

  “What?”

  “I think you just need to grow into yourself.” The minute he said it, he was sorry. She would surely ask him what he meant, and he had no idea how to answer her.

  But the precocious little child simply tilted her head to one side as she pondered his statement. “I expect you’re right,” she finally said. “Just look at my legs.”

  A discreet cough masked the chuckle that welled up in Turner’s throat. “What do you mean?”

&
nbsp; “Well, they’re far too long. Mama always says that they start at my shoulders.”

  “They appear to begin quite properly at your waist to me.”

  Miranda giggled. “I was speaking metaphorically.”

  Turner blinked. This ten-year-old had quite a vocabulary, indeed.

  “What I meant,” she went on, “is that my legs are all the wrong size compared to the rest of me. I think that’s why I can’t seem to learn how to dance. I’m forever trodding on Olivia’s toes.”

  “On Olivia’s toes?”

  “We practice together,” Miranda explained briskly. “I think that if the rest of me catches up with my legs, I won’t be so clumsy. So I think you’re right. I do have to grow into myself.”

  “Splendid,” Turner said, happily aware that he had somehow managed to say exactly the right thing. “Well, we seem to have arrived.”

  Miranda looked up at the gray stone house that was her home. It was located right on one of the many streams that connected the lakes of the district, and one had to cross over a little cobbled bridge just to reach the front door. “Thank you very much for taking me home, Turner. I promise I’ll never call you Nigel.”

  “Will you also promise to pinch Olivia if she calls me Nigel?”

  Miranda let out a little giggle and clapped her hand to her mouth. She nodded.

  Turner dismounted and then turned to the little girl and helped her down. “Do you know what I think you should do, Miranda?” he said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “I think you ought to keep a journal.”

  She blinked in surprise. “Why? Who would want to read it?”

  “No one, silly. You keep it for yourself. And maybe someday after you die, your grandchildren will read it so they will know what you were like when you were young.”

  She tilted her head. “What if I don’t have grandchildren?”

  Turner impulsively reached out and tousled her hair. “You ask a lot of questions, puss.”

  “But what if I don’t have grandchildren?”

  Lord, she was persistent. “Perhaps you’ll be famous.” He sighed. “And the children who study about you in school will want to know about you.”